


Castle of Glass

by LuthienLuinwe



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - World War II, Army, Blood, Child Death, Corpse Desecration, Explosion, Loss of Limbs, Minor Character Death, Mutilation, Psychological Torture, Survivor Guilt, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-04-22 03:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14299650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuthienLuinwe/pseuds/LuthienLuinwe
Summary: In the middle of World War II, four men found their stories intertwining.Sgt. Todd was captured, not by enemy forces, but by a madman hellbent on watching the world burn.Lt. Grayson was doing his best to win the damn war.PFC Drake was drafted and never really liked France anyway.And General Wayne vowed he was retiring just as soon as the Allies won.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to thank my coworker, who has been (and will be) dealing with my incessant questions and need to bounce ideas off of someone else. Without him, this work would be impossible.

**Jason**

The world slowly faded back into focus, but the ringing in his ears wouldn’t go away. Something warm and sticky and wet clung to his face, mixed with something rough and gritty and dirty.

God his head hurt.

His head hadn’t hurt that much since the explosion that had caused Sgt. Harper to lose his arm.

* * *

The explosion had caught him off guard, though in hindsight, it probably shouldn’t have. It was a high-risk mission, one his squad should have never been involved in in the first place. But leave it to Lieutenant Grayson to send them all marching off to their deaths. Except Jason knew he couldn’t be dead.

Because there was no way in hell being dead would hurt that damn much.

Every inch of his body burned in pure agony, but he didn’t have the energy to scream, let alone move to check how bad the damage was. 

He could only see three of his fellow soldiers, and he was fairly certain two of them were dead.  
He didn’t want Sgt. Harper, if he was still alive, to have to send another letter home, talking to their parents about how bravely they had died.

Because none of them, himself included, had been particularly brave when that bomb went off, sending them all flying, probably killing most of them.

It should have been him.

God, it should have been him.

He’d signed up for this. He knew what he was getting into. The two near him, he was certain they were dead by that point, they had been unlucky enough to have their numbers pulled. They should have been at home drinking with their friends and worrying about women, not lying dead in a pile of rubble and blood and gunpowder.

A glimpse of movement caught the corner of his eye, and agonizingly, Jason turned his head to see it. The bloodied and battered, yet still recognizable face of Sgt. Harper glanced over at him, eyes dazed, pupils dilated. No doubt he had a concussion.

No doubt Jason did too.

“You okay, corporal?” the older man choked out. Jason knew he had meant to shout the words, but it had come out more of a strangled noise than anything else.

“Think so, sergeant,” Jason responded. At least Jason man had managed to get out from underneath whatever rubble had been burying him. He glanced around, trying to see if anyone else might still be alive. But he was feeling woozy and his vision was fading in and out of focus. Not to mention he was pretty damn sure there was only one Roy Harper, even if Jason was seeing two of him. “So what’s the plan?”

“Hope for a rescue?” Roy had managed, though his voice was barely above a whisper.

Had it been any other situation on any other day, Jason would have laughed. Hell, he might have then if he hadn’t noticed what he’d noticed. Because a disembodied arm lie cold and dead and covered in blood a few feet away from where Sgt. Harper was nearly buried alive. And there was nothing but blood-soaked rubble where Roy’s arm should have been. “Shit,” he swore, not caring that Roy could hear him, that he would distress his squad leader more than he needed to be. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”  
Roy’s eyes had rolled to the back of his head. Jason knew he needed to keep him awake, keep him talking. He’d lost a ton of blood, they both had. Unconsciousness wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. 

“Stay with me, sergeant,” Jason’s voice pleaded, but the black dots in Roy’s vision were getting bigger and the world was getting hazier.  
And everything had faded away.

* * *

That explosion had been child’s play compared to the most recent one, though. They’d been patrolling, though Jason couldn’t remember where. They had found hostages in an abandoned building, but by the time his squad had arrived, the hostages had all been killed.

He could still see the five-year-old girl crucified to the wall. The corners of her mouth had been sliced open into a terrifying, permanent grin.

There had been a laugh. God it had been such a maddening laugh, the laugh of someone who had nothing left to lose. “It’s a trap!” he had tried to shout, but it had been too late.

The force of the explosion had nearly killed him.

He was surprised it didn’t.

God, things had been so much easier when he was the one taking orders instead of giving them out.

* * *

It wasn’t that Jason didn’t like being a soldier. He’d enlisted in the United States Army before he’d even graduated high school. His pathetic excuse for parents couldn’t wait to sign the paperwork and send him on his merry way. He’d never been good at following orders, but he’d been good enough not to get caught doing anything too terrible and he’d been a good enough shot to rise through the ranks fairly quickly for a nobody kid who was going to live and die in the heat of battle.

No, Jason Todd absolutely loved being a soldier.

And then Sgt. Roy Harper, the one person Jason had just been starting to respect and be able to stand being ordered around by had gotten a medical discharge and what little remained of Jason’s squad had no leader. And Lt. Grayson was still waiting on the men he’d been promised months ago. And Jason had been available.

Being a leader, though. Now that was a different story.

Hell, though, it was still better than being a damn officer, and so he dealt with it as best as he could. He spent his days barking out orders and thanking the good Lord himself, if he even existed, that he didn’t have to do Second Lieutenant Grayson’s job and that he wasn’t placed as platoon commander like one unlucky Sergeant West. Jason had a hard enough time managing six, sometimes seven, men. He couldn’t imagine being placed in command of a full platoon.

Dick Grayson had lost more men than he could count.

Jason Todd hadn’t lost a single one, though he’d had a few close calls. 

Granted, he’d only been in charge for three weeks.

But the boys he had been sent to replace the squad that had been sent back home barely looked old enough to be drafted in the first place, and each had looked more terrified than the one before. “Alright men,” he addressed them, not even bothering to check their formation or to make sure they were standing at proper attention. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway. The others could deal with strict formalities. Jason just wanted a feel for what he had to work with. “At ease.”

Several had hesitated before switching position. God they’d gotten too lax about training since they started forcing people to fight. “My name is Sergeant Todd. You may address me as such. You’ve probably heard lots of mean, terrible, awful things about me,” he commented as he paced before them. One boy, a dark-haired kid who barely looked twenty-one, didn’t break eye contact once. Jason smirked and stopped dead in front of him. “Well I’m here to tell you every damn last word is true,” his smirk broadened when the boy flinched a bit, and he resumed walking once more. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir!” the boy had barked and Jason had fought the urge to smirk again.

“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living.” It had been Roy’s favorite line, and Jason had been ecstatic to finally use it. Even though he wished it had been under better circumstances.

Messing with the newbies was the only damn good part of being a leader, after all. “As I hope they’ve made you aware, we’re under the direct command of Second Lieutenant Grayson,” he continued speaking. “Yes. He really was raised by General Wayne. Yes, he really used to perform in a circus. Yes, he’s just as pretty as people say,” he smiled a bit when a few of the men laughed. He made a mental note to get their names. “He could also kill you twenty different ways before you even blinked.” The laughter had died off almost immediately.

He stopped in the middle of the group, turned to face them, and crossed his arms. “His job is to get those motherfucking Axis bastards to drop like flies and to make sure we don’t go off and start fighting with our allies.” He glanced the youngest, at least Jason assumed he was the youngest, over, wondering if he needed to double-check the boy’s age. 

“My job,” he continued and kicked some dirt up with his boot. “Is to get you sons of bitches back home, preferably in one piece. Understood?”

A collective cry of “Yes, Sergeant!” sounded through the group. Music to Jason’s ears.

“Good,” he stretched. “Welcome to France. For the next year, it’s our collective hell on Earth. Try not to get yourselves killed.”

* * *

“Come on, now,” Jason shut his eyes though he didn’t remember opening them. “It’s no fun if you aren’t awake. After all, what’s a performance without an audience?”

The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. If he didn’t know any better, he would have sworn the laughing man from earlier had been the same person… The laughing man who had slaughtered forty innocent civilians and written the words, ‘Joke’s On You,’ on one of the walls in his victims’ blood.

They weren’t supposed to get involved in civilian matters. Jason had gotten into more arguments with Grayson about it than he could count. But he had made a judgment call. And it had nearly gotten him killed.

Worse, it had most likely gotten most, if not all, of his men killed.

A flash of blinding pain flew across his ribcage. A sickening snap filled the air. The pain was blinding, but worse, it had been unexpected. He’d been shot. He’d been stabbed. But he had been in dangerous situations that required he be prepared for dangerous outcomes. He could train his mind to stay away from the pain. But only if he knew it was coming.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. The air had been knocked out of his lungs. He needed to focus, to try and find a way out, to get back to his men and to his platoon and hope to God that Grayson didn’t have his ass court-martialed.

His eyes shot open and he glared at the man standing in front of him. He wasn’t a soldier, or if he was, wasn’t wearing a uniform. His accent screamed French, but the French were supposed to be on their side.

* * *

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jason shouted at the officer seated across from him, the former acrobat pretty-boy son of a millionaire that would never truly understand what life was really like for his soldiers. Lt. Grayson glared at him, a glare that Jason had only ever seen on the lieutenant and on General Wayne’s faces, a glare that never ceased to get him to rethink his words or actions, maybe even to feel bad about them. “Excuse me. Are you out of your mind, sir?!”

“It’s the only plan we’ve got,” Grayson responded, voice calm, collected. Jason wondered if learning that tone of voice was something all officers learned in OCS. He sure as hell never wanted to find out. It never ceased to make Jason feel like he was being talked down to.

“With all do respect, sir,” Sgt. West said. He had been leaned against the tent wall while Grayson had been drawing on the map. “I have to agree with Sgt. Todd. Are you out of your mind?”

“And do either of you have a better plan?” Grayson had challenged, and Jason and West had kept their mouths shut. Making fun of officers was always fun until he realized he would be making the plans otherwise. At least if they got themselves killed, that guilt would be on Grayson’s head, not Jason’s. “Didn’t think so.”

They had lost the battle.

Badly.

And Sgt. Wallace West, Wally to his friends, had been Missing in Action ever since.

* * *

Jason coughed, and blood spattered and speckled the cold concrete floor he was collapsed on. The man with him had laughed, a vicious, inhuman sound. Even when he closed his eyes, Jason couldn’t get the man’s horribly disfigured face out of his head. No doubt his Glasgow smile would haunt him in his dreams. If he even made it out of there alive.

“Come on, now, Sergeant,” the man laughed and spit. At least he had been smart enough to tie Jason’s hands behind his back. He would have throttled him otherwise, broken arm and concussion be damned. “Your little group wasn’t the one I expected. Don’t disappoint me more than I already am.”

“Fuck you,” Jason spat out, more crimson staining gray. He gasped when he was hit with a kick to his ribs. Another snap. He wheezed when he breathed, but he tried to hide it, tried to hide his fear.

* * *

Brigadier General Wayne had come to visit their humble little camp. And Grayson had spent every free minute he had making sure Jason and his men were making everything was in tip-top shape. His men had been laughing at the officer behind his back. Jason had caught them and set them straight at least twice. Favoritism or not, a general visiting was no laughing matter, and Jason wasn’t going to screw it up.

Grayson had insisted Jason be present at the meeting. After all, he was the only other one present when Dick had made the plan that had resulted in a quarter of the platoon ending up dead or missing. 

It must have been difficult, Jason thought. Admitting a mistake to a general was bad enough. But admitting a mistake to a general who also happened to be your adoptive father? That must have been horrific.

“I’m not here about your mistake,” General Wayne said after Dick finished explaining everything that had happened. Jason had never seen the man that nervous before. “It’s been three months. You need a new platoon sergeant.”

“He could still be out there, General,” Grayson argued. 

“You know he’s not,” General Wayne responded and turned to face Jason. “Congratulations, Sergeant. You’ve just been promoted.”

* * *

“You can make this all end,” the madman had knelt beside Jason, had cradled his chin in one hand before backhanding him with the other. Jason glared daggers at him. “Where are they headed next?”

“Go to hell,” Jason snapped.

And regretted it as soon as the man had a boot on his neck. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to suffocate in the middle of an abandoned building where no one knew he was, and that son of a bitch was going to kill him. “I wonder how long it takes a person to suffocate?” Jason clawed at his ankle, but it had been no use. He could feel himself getting weaker with every breath he failed to take. Just a little bit more pressure, and he’d have a lovely new collapsed windpipe.  
“Now, now,” the man tutted. “After all I’ve done for you?”

Something cold and metal had come crashing down on his back, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction.

* * *

Private Garfield Logan was the first man Jason lost. He had only been a sergeant for a month. Everything had been going great until then. His men respected him. He would have trusted them with his life.

Gar had been a jokester, always quick to make light of any situation, no matter how dire. He got on Jason’s nerves, if he was being honest, but he knew it kept morale up. And when all of them were there against their will, Jason needed as much morale as he could get from them.

And the worst part?

They hadn’t even been in battle.

A new soldier didn’t know how to clean his weapon.

Gar had been trying to show him.

And the weapon had gone off and a bullet had lodged itself between PFC Logan’s eyes. Jason had screamed for a medic, but there was nothing anyone could do. Gar was dead before he hit the ground.

Jason made sure every damn newbie knew how to properly maintain their weapon after that day.

* * *

“Who are you?” Jason demanded, even though he doubted he would get an answer.

And, as expected, the man had laughed again, laughed and crouched down to look Jason in the eye. “That’s not important, now is it?” Jason glared, but the man just kept smiling. “Where are they headed?”

_Crack._

“I won’t tell you.”

_Snap._

“They’re coming for me. They’ll find me and end you.”

_Crack. Snap. Crack._

“No one’s coming for you, Sergeant Todd,” the man sent one last kick toward Jason’s chest, one that sent him flying back into the concrete wall behind him. He was definitely going to feel that in the morning, assuming he woke up.

And just when he thought the man would finally kill him, he had left Jason alone. Alone and in complete and total darkness and silence, something he would have found comforting anywhere else. He’d never been completely on his own before.

He needed a plan, and he needed one quick.  
_So what’s the plan?_ he could still hear his younger self asking. God things had been so much easier back then.  
_Hope for a rescue?_  
His team would find him.  
They had to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Tim**

Timothy Jackson Drake’s life had been nothing short of perfect. He was set to inherit his father’s company in a few years. He was thinking of proposing to his long-term girlfriend Cassandra Sandsmark. He had friends who loved him. He loved his life and everyone and everything in it.

And then his number had gotten called in the draft and he had found himself being ruthlessly trained because the European front needed men more than the Sahara needed water and he had found himself from answering to Tim to answering to Private Drake and learning the finer arts of marksmanship from his personal Satan, Drill Sergeant Oliver Queen. 

Training had been hell, but nothing had compared to the sheer dread he had felt when he had finally been shipped out, wondering if he was ever going to see Gotham, see Cassandra, ever again. “You boys are lucky,” Queen had said to the other deploying platoon. “You sons of bitches are going off to General Kent’s territory.” Tim had always heard good things about General Kent, that he was a kind, compassionate, if not sometimes intimidating, man who always wanted the best for his men.

Tim’s platoon had not been nearly as fortunate. No, they were set to be placed under the command of General Wayne, known for his brooding and his need to achieve victory no matter the cost. The platoon was to be placed under the direct command of Second Lieutenant Grayson, an adopted son of General Wayne, he had been informed, and Tim would be placed in Sergeant Harper’s squad.

“Know anything about them?” Tim asked a newly-formed buddy, Private Logan, Gar to his friends. He’d made fast friends with the fellow boy, no, they were men now, over the course of their training.

“No clue,” Gar responded and stretched out. “Heard he’s pretty young, though. Maybe related to Queen. Can never really get a straight answer on that.” 

Tim rolled his eyes and laughed when one of his fellow soldiers made some stupid joke, wondering how many times he’d be able to laugh once he was placed in the middle of a battlefield with nothing but his fellow soldiers and a weapon he barely knew how to use. At least they were being sent off to a relatively stable location. “Guess we’re the lucky bastards after all.”

“We all got drafted,” Gar had responded, losing his joking tone for once. “None of us are lucky bastards.”

And God, Tim had wished he’d been wrong.

* * *

The explosion had caught him completely off-guard. He and the rest of his squad had been patrolling. God, he was never going to forget the little girl crucified to the wall… Sergeant Todd had screamed something at the group, but Tim had been too far away to hear it. He doubted it was important. It seemed like Todd was always shouting about something.

The heat had surprised him more than anything else. It was the dead of winter, and Tim had just started to adjust to the sickly, wet feeling of constantly being half-frozen. He wasn’t prepared at all for the violent, radiating fire that came with that explosion.

He heard his body hit the ground before he felt it. The sheer unexpectedness of the impact had surprised him more than anything else. He’d been far enough away from the bomb that he’d missed the brunt of the explosion, though it had still knocked him out cold for a good while. 

Everything hurt. His head felt like mush, and the wheezing he heard along with the stabbing pain he felt with each breath couldn’t have meant anything good, at least anything good that he could think of.

Tim carefully made his way back up to his feet once he came to and surveyed the area. By his count, three men were dead. One of his fellow soldiers was unconscious but breathing. Another was clearing some rubble away from a body.

Sergeant Todd was nowhere in sight.

* * *

Lt. Grayson had personally come to welcome them to the camp, something that surprised Tim. Everyone on the base he and the others had been on before deploying had said Grayson was a smug bastard who was too worried about his appearance to worry about his men. Tim and the others had saluted him almost immediately. “At ease,” Grayson commanded when he turned to face them.

Tim shifted his feet, dropped his hand, and studied the officer before him. He was young, only a few years older than Tim, if he had to guess. And yet he still had the weight of the world resting on his shoulders. “As you are well aware, you were to be placed under Sergeant Harper.”

“Yes, sir!” Tim and the others had affirmed in unison. The others had been so ecstatic about the assignment. Everyone had said how laid-back Harper was, that he would be better for the new recruits than some of the others. But the laid-back nature worried Tim. War was no time for relaxation and ease. Too much of that would get them all killed.

“Due to some… unfortunate… circumstances,” Grayson continued, and Tim knew that nothing good was going to follow. “Sergeant Harper has received a medical discharge.” Tim frowned at that, wondering what could have happened. Of all the things that had crossed his mind: death by gunshot, death from exposure, imprisonment… He hadn’t even considered severe injury, not even permanent injury. “You will now be placed under Sergeant Todd.”

Tim frowned at that. He hadn’t heard anything about a Sergeant Todd, not even from Queen who seemed to know everybody. Surely it wasn’t a newly-promoted Corporal Todd. Tim had heard horror stories about him. No, he must have been new, or at least newly appointed. Tim didn’t like the sound of that. He’d heard horror stories of new sergeants who became hellbent on making the lives of their underlings a living hell in order to try to get a grasp on their newfound authority.

“He’s a good man,” Grayson continued. “I have no doubt he’ll do right by all of you.” A redhead, one that looked a bit older than Grayson, saluted the officer before standing beside him. “This is Sergeant West, our platoon sergeant. If you have any questions or problems, you go to him. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Tim shouted with the group once again.

“Good,” Grayson nodded. “Dismissed.”

* * *

“Where the hell is Sergeant Todd?” Corporal Hall shouted as he kept clearing the rubble. Tim helped as best as he could, but he was too exhausted from the blast to be of much use. They’d searched the rubble for hours, and there had been no sign whatsoever of the missing man.

Tim was tiring quickly. Every bone and muscle in his body ached. His lungs still burned from the smoke he’d inhaled during the blast. He wanted to leave the place, to never return to it again, but the thought of trekking miles and miles back to camp filled him with nothing but dread.

“Maybe we should give it a rest,” Tim suggested after another hour of searching and digging. 

Hall swore and kicked some rubble to the side before sitting down on the wrecked ground. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m taking a sergeant position. Harper lost his arm, West’s God-knows-where, and now Todd’s gone missing too. It’s jinxed, I tell you.”

“He’s got to be around here somewhere,” Tim shook his head. After all, people didn’t just disappear off the face of the earth. More likely than not, Todd was dead and they just hadn’t uncovered the body yet. But Tim was more than certain they’d cleared the bulk of it away. None of what remained looked big enough to hide a body Todd’s size. “Didn’t even see any enemies.”

“Probably what they wanted,” Hall shook his head. “We need to head back, let the others deal with it.” Tim started to argue, but Hall held up a hand to stop him. “We’re leaving, Private. That’s an order.”

Tim glared, but left all the same.

* * *

The voyage overseas had been hell on Earth. They had been crowded into a ship too small to hold everyone, and there was no ventilation below-deck. Tim had been almost relieved when they docked. At least he could breathe in the field, even if his lungs would be filled with gunsmoke and rubble, his ears ringing with shots and screams.

“I’m never getting on another boat again,” Gar complained as he collapsed onto the ground, Tim beside him. “Thank God we aren’t in the Navy.”

“No, we’re just about to get shot at,” Tim laughed dryly and leaned back on his elbows. They’d been off the ship for a good hour, maybe longer, but he could still feel the deck rocking beneath him, could still feel the queasy feeling in his stomach..

“At least we’re here for a few days,” Gar said. “Who knows? Maybe we can find some fun while we’re out here.” Tim rolled his eyes and clutched the photo of Cassandra he had brought with him. The others on the boat had teased him about it, called him too sentimental for his own good. He didn’t care.

“And then off to war,” Tim sighed and folded the picture back up, placing it into his pocket for safe-keeping.

“And then off to war,” Gar matched his tone.

* * *

Every bone and muscle in his body ached. They had warned him that war was painful during basic training. But being told and experiencing were two completely different things. They hadn’t even been moved to the front, and Tim had already seen four men die, one of them his good friend. They were still a good five miles out from camp, and Tim wasn’t entirely sure both he and his corporal were going to make it.

“Grayson’s going to want a report,” the corporal muttered as they trudged through the snow. Their squad was supposed to have returned hours ago. Tim was surprised no one had come looking. He nodded and tried to focus on the way ahead. God he couldn’t wait to get into some warm, dry clothes. He made a mental note to keep an eye on his extremities. The last thing he needed was a case of trench foot. Though, if it came to that, there was a chance he could go home…

“And what are we going to tell him?” Tim asked, swearing when he jammed his toe on a rock, his only comfort knowing that he still had feeling in his toes. He would have killed for a decent-fitting pair of boots, but the only pair in his size had already been given to a different soldier only a few days before Tim had arrived.

“Three killed in action, one missing in action, presumed dead.” Tim nodded again and leaned against a nearby tree for support. God, he couldn’t wait to get back to camp and sleep the day’s events away, even though he was certain they would come back to haunt him. He was beginning to think the 133rd was jinxed. “General Wayne’s going to flip his shit.”

Tim nodded but didn’t say anything. What else could he say?

* * *

The first time Timothy Drake met Brigadier General Bruce Wayne, he thought he had stepped into an alternate dimension. He had heard rumors all through camp and during basic training that Wayne was ruthless and would achieve victory by any means necessary.

When Tim learned the general insisted on meeting each new member of Platoon Sergeant Todd’s squad though, he learned he’d been dead wrong. Wayne had been distraught that Sergeant West had gone missing, and seemed to genuinely care about the morale of his division after the events had transpired.

He hadn’t even yelled at Lieutenant Grayson, something Tim and his fellow soldiers had all placed bets on. “I’d bring you all home safely if I could,” Wayne had told them just before his departure. “Unfortunately, that isn’t a promise I can make. Believe me, I wish I could.”

His battle plans were all carefully crafted, at least the few parts that Tim could see. West’s disappearance had been bad, but Wayne had rubbed it off as a fluke accident. They were in the middle of an extremely bloody war. They couldn’t recover everyone. More than likely, he was killed in action and never recovered. Still, Tim appreciated that the general took death and disappearance so seriously.

He couldn’t have asked for a better commanding officer.

* * *

“Report,” Grayson crossed his arms and stared down Tim, Corporal Hall, and the other GI who had survived the explosion. Tim glanced at Hall, glad for once that he was so lowly ranked. At least Grayson wouldn’t be expecting him to say too much, even if Tim had gained a reputation around camp for being a bit of a know-it-all.

“Sergeant Todd led us into a warehouse,” Hall spoke, tone even, controlled. Tim wondered how he managed it, especially when the events had happened not even twelve hours prior. He was still shaken by the whole thing. “We found, by my count, twenty civilians, most children, all deceased. When Sergeant Todd started to investigate, we were met with an explosion. Private Garrett, Private First Class Kord, and Specialist Reyes all KIA. Sergeant Todd MIA.”

Tim watched as Grayson’s serious expression turned into a deep frown. “You’re positive he’s MIA?”

“We searched everywhere, sir,” Hall nodded. “No sign of him.”

Grayson turned to face Tim. “Everywhere?”

“Everywhere, sir,” Tim nodded. 

He watched as Grayson swore and kicked a nearby chair, not hard enough to knock it over, but enough to make it wobble. Grayson shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. Tim had only seen him visibly distraught once before, when Sergeant West had gone missing. He had even been calm when Gar had been shot accidentally. “We don’t have time to do a search.”

Hall frowned, and Tim had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew why. “Why is that, sir?”

Grayson shut his eyes and took a deep breath, no doubt debating whether or not to tell Tim and his companions the news. Tim watched as Grayson pulled a piece of paper off of the table holding a map. “Orders from General Wayne. We’re relieving the 48th.”

Tim hoped to God that his face and body language didn’t reflect his mental state. He knew it would happen eventually. He was a soldier. He was in a war. He was lucky he’d gone that long staying away from the front.

But, as with all things, luck ran out.

“Get some rest,” Grayson sighed and set the paper back down. “We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

“Sir,” Hall nodded and saluted before leaving, Tim following his lead. “Better sleep while you can, Private,” he said to Tim. Tim nodded and headed to his cot, doubting that he was ever going to have a peaceful night’s sleep again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A dog dies in this chapter.

**Dick**

Richard “Dick” Grayson had joined the army as an officer more out of an attempt to be more like his adoptive father, General Wayne, than out of anything else. But he quickly found that leadership suited him. People liked him. He was respected. He woke up every day with a purpose in life that suited him well enough, and damn, he was good at it.

At least until his men started disappearing and getting injured and getting killed left and right.

Roy had lost his arm. They were in a damned war zone. No one was safe. No one was getting out unscathed. But he’d been a good man who had earned the respect of his fellow soldiers with blood, sweat, and tears. He was the last person something like that should have happened to.

Wally was a tragedy, but not a surprise. The mission had been risky. Everyone had warned him it was risky. But wars weren’t won by people who played it safe. Wars were won by the risk takers. And Dick wasn’t going to be the reason the Allies lost the war.

Jason was a surprise, but again, not unexpected. The kid, even though he was only a few years younger than Dick, had a nasty habit of “loosely interpreting” rules and orders. It was only a matter of time before something bad happened to him. He just hoped Todd would have lasted a little bit longer.

He was getting new soldiers shipped in daily, it seemed. And each new group had been more poorly trained than the last. But he didn’t have time to get them into shape. Orders had been passed down by General Wayne. They were moving to the front.

It was now or never.

* * *

They’d been in the foxholes for a week. Dick had the option of staying behind, of sending some of his men without him. But a good leader led by example, and he wasn’t about to sit around waiting for the news that he’d lost more men. No, he was going to keep a close eye on them. Even if it meant acting in a hands-on manner.

He’d brought five men with him, PFC Drake among them. The kid could work a radio better than most of the others could. Not to mention he spoke passable French, something invaluable to the team. God knew none of the others could speak a lick of it, himself included. General Wayne had tried to get him to learn, but Dick had insisted his talents were better used elsewhere.

One of the French officers was speaking over the radio. PFC Drake was interpreting, at least as best as he could. “He says they have an AWOL medic,” Drake glanced between the radio and Dick. “Possible Nazi sympathizer. Glasglow grin. Name Napier. Have we seen him?”

Dick shook his head, gave a “no,” and watched as Drake continued speaking with their ally. Napier. That name sounded familiar…

Right. He had been the one to help amputate what was left of Harper’s arm. Dick had gotten a bad feeling about the man, had gotten the impression that he was twisted, sadistic even. Hell, Dick would have bet the man enjoyed cutting what was left away. “We’ll keep an eye out, though,” he said to Drake, who interpreted it over.

The last thing they needed was another whack-job on the loose.

* * *

Colonel Wilson was one of the most intimidating men Dick had ever met. Between his massive height, massive build, and the damn eye-patch, and the battle scars, he was not a man to be messed with. Dick hated his guts. He was cocky. He was ruthless. He didn’t care about his men.

And of course, he just had to be part of Dick’s immediate chain of command.

It had been a long day. He’d just gotten the report from Corporal Hall, now Sergeant Hall, and PFC Drake that Platoon Sergeant Todd was MIA, and that half of their squad was KIA. They needed to send out a team to see if they could recover Todd. He wasn’t sure he had men to spare.

He headed back to his tent after inspecting a few things, after meeting with the other sergeants, and wanted to swear when he saw Wilson leaned over his map, studying his strategies. As much as he hated it, he saluted. He waited for Wilson to return the salute, and sat when instructed to do so. 

“I wasn’t expecting you, Colonel,” he commented and studied the man’s face, hoping it would give something away, knowing it wouldn’t. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He felt his stomach turn when Wilson pulled a piece of paper from his pockets, as he unfolded them carefully, smoothing out each individual crease. Why did he always have to make things so difficult? “Orders from the General,” the man answered, sliding the form over to Dick. “Congratulations. You boys are moving to the front.”

It didn’t come as too much of a surprise. His platoon had been in the European Theatre of Operations for weeks. They were bound to be called before too long. Dick had just hoped he’d have a bit longer to properly train some of his new soldiers.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” Wilson continued, saying the rank as if it was something dishonorable, something below him. Well, the rank was lower, but still… “Maybe this division will get lucky and get a lieutenant who earned his rank instead of getting it from dear old dad.”

God, he hated that guy.

* * *

_My Dearest Barbara,_

_It’s been two weeks at the front, and it’s colder than hell. One man’s down with trench foot already. It’s been hell on earth here without you. I hope you’re doing well, that you’re taking care of your dad. I was sorry to hear about your brother, but maybe being locked up again will do him some good._

_The boys here are so young I can barely believe it. PFC Drake can’t be older than nineteen, even if he claims he’s twenty-one. We haven’t gotten any news from the others. We don’t know if we’re winning or losing or if we’re doing any damned good at all._

_I’m counting down the days until we win this war. Until I can see you again._

_Your Love,_

_Dick_

“Are you kidding me, lieutenant?” one of the men laughed, holding the letter up for the others to see. “The great Lieutenant Grayson, a love-letter author?” Dick rolled his eyes. Let them laugh. God knows they all needed a laugh. And some hard liquor.

“Quiet,” he hissed when he thought he heard something in the distance. A branch snapping, rustle of leaves on the ground… “Get down,” he instructed and tried to let his officer’s mind take over his civilian’s. He wasn’t going to lose another man. Not if he could help it.

He wasn’t going to let any of those boys die in those damned holes.

He watched Drake silence the radio and duck his head back down. They knew the enemies would find them soon enough. Hell, they never left their foxholes empty for too long. God only knew when they’d drop by to say ‘hello.’

Hall had his rifle out, ready to shoot at the drop of a hat. Dick kept a close eye on the distance. “Shit,” he swore under his breath when he saw it. Not a soldier. A dog. German Shepherd come to sniff them out and report home.

“What’s your call, sir?” Hall asked, keeping his voice low. Dick hoped to whatever God was out there that the dog didn’t hear him.

The call should have been simple. Kill the dog. Shoot it. Don’t let it report back. But God above, Bruce’s son back home had such an affinity for the things… He’d never forgive Dick if he ordered it dead. One dead dog or a squad of dead men… It would be quick. It probably wouldn’t even feel it…

“Got a clean shot,” Hall continued, and Dick had rarely felt more sick to his stomach about a situation. They were worse than dead if that dog led the enemy back to them. And they couldn’t afford to change locations, not again.

He took a shaky breath, but didn’t dare close his eyes. A good leader wouldn’t look away. A better leader would have done it himself. “Fire when ready,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

It didn’t hurt, he tried to tell himself as they disposed of the body. It didn’t feel it, he convinced himself as he tried to sleep. It was just the cold keeping him awake…

* * *

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Bruce had told him while he packed. Of course he knew he didn’t have to. He didn’t have to do anything. But it was join now and get his commission or get drafted later. They wouldn’t have a draft, Bruce had said. Bullshit. They’d done it before and they would do it again. At least this way he had some control over it. At least this way he could play a part in helping some unlucky kid get back home to his family.

“I want to,” he said and finished folding his shirts. He checked over the list from officer school one last time. He’d be damned if he was the boy who forgot something. “Besides, I’ve learned from the best.”

“They’ll put you under Wilson,” Bruce warned, and Dick just nodded. He’d heard horror stories of Major Wilson. That he was ruthless and cruel and would make his orders without bothering to worry about the consequences. And that was exactly why Dick needed to get in there. Change it from the inside out. Let those boys have at least a small chance of survival.

“I’m a grown man, Bruce,” he sighed. Just a few short weeks and he’d be addressing his adoptive father as ‘General’ or ‘Sir.’ “I know what I’m getting myself into.” He sighed and latched his suitcase shut before turning to face the man. God above, he looked so different out of uniform. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you will be,” Bruce patted him on the shoulder. “Now go spend time with that girl of yours before you can’t anymore.”

Dick smiled at that. The thought of spending months, years away from Barbara made his heart ache like nothing else. They’d never been apart that long before. He pulled Bruce into a quick hug before walking out the door.

* * *

The sound of a gunshot had jolted him awake. He glanced around, trying to keep calm. “The hell was that?” Drake had questioned as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Dick shook his head and motioned for him to be quiet before reaching for his firearm.

“Wake the others,” he commanded before glancing out at the woods surrounding them. Just a hunter, he tried to tell himself. A hunter out in the middle of a damned warzone… Another shot, and his blood ran cold. God, they were going to die and no one would know for months…

No, he couldn’t afford to think like that. Head clear. Make the orders. Get everyone back home safe where they belonged. He heard Hall swear when a shell flew over them, narrowly missing his head. “Return fire,” he shouted. No sense in secrecy now. Someone obviously knew exactly where they were.

And he couldn’t help but to think he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.


End file.
